


Ineffable Moments

by sippingteabythesea



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romantic Fluff, Snapshots, Soft and tender, platonic fluff, really just tiny blurbs post-apocawasn't of them being precious and in love and soft with each other, soft moments, soft snapshots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 09:48:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19809781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sippingteabythesea/pseuds/sippingteabythesea
Summary: It's the rest of their lives. No memos. No assignments. No sides but each other's. They have every day ahead of them to be together. Though a day isn't much in comparison to 6,000 years, each one holds the universe.





	1. On the Subject of Birds

**Author's Note:**

> This is just going to be a bunch of soft one-shots, drabbles, and fic-lets with no rhyme or reason apart from I need to get back in the writing groove, I love these two, they love each other, and I need more of them being Soft™ and Tender™ with each other.

The trees shivered in the gentle afternoon breeze. White wisps meandered high across the sky. Soft sun filtered through the leaves, dappling a delicate golden hue across the verdant grass. The tartan blanket laid across the ground with unwrinkled grace despite the two bodies, basket, and glasses that sat on it. 

In the distance a young boy fished out seed from a small bag. He held out a cupped hand to the nearby pigeons who flocked to his arm. One with a shock of white and purple feathering fluttered on top of his head and affectionately pecked at his hair.

“Such loving creatures.” Aziraphale kept impeccable posture with his legs in front of him crossed at the ankles in cultivated recline.

“Hm?” Crowley rolled his head in Aziraphale’s direction. His long limbs splayed akimbo across the blanket. His shirt had rumpled pulling the neck of his collar askew. His thin scarf trailed upwards above his head, and the arms of his jacket pinched tight at his arms. 

“Pigeons. Loving creatures.”

“‘Cept when they wake you at any and all holy hours with the incessant coo-ing at the window.”

A swan trumpeted off to their left before gliding into the Serpentine. 

“Crows,” Crowley continued. “They’re not bad. Bringing gifts and all that.”

“Thought perhaps you may prefer ducks,” Aziraphale said, a small smile curling his words.

“Eh.” He shrugged. “Too easy to buy their loyalty.” Crowley waved his hand. “Change sides too much. Unassuming. Always around. Sneaking about for any crumbs. Listening in on conversations. Don’t trust ‘em.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale chuckled. “Nothing to do with how they always seem to escape your mind, I see. Quite right. Untrustworthy birds, ducks.”

“Exactly.” Crowley hummed and wriggled deeper into the blanket, turning his face back to the sun. He let out a pleased hiss.


	2. On Late Nights and Loving Dreams

Night had long since fallen outside the bookshop. The light from the cold, shaking street lamps filtered through the windows. Inside the small alcove, warm lamplight soften the edges of book covers and furniture. Shadows embraced the occupants, nestling the life inside. Cool air held the world in suspension. Quiet notes of harmonies drifted and curled around the space.

White gloved hands hovered over aged pages of timeless tomes. Fingers stroked the faded words with religious reverence. A low breathe of awe slipped through parted lips. 

One room over the record player clicked, scratchy white noise and clacking signified the end of the record. 

“Crowley, would you mind?” Aziraphale asked in the direction of the couch off to his side. His eyes steadfast on the text before him. He turned the page with a gentle  _ fwip _ . 

In the background, dancing around his ears, continued the persistent  _ wrrsh-click _ ,  _ wrrsh-click, wrrsh-click _ of the player. 

“Crowley, the record is over. Did you not say letting it run was not good - ” Aziraphale’s sentence trailed off into the air as his eyes fell on Crowley’s curled form fast asleep on the couch.

His red hair was squished against the side of his scalp, distressing his perfectly messed crew cut. Heavy breath poured from his slackened mouth. A dribble of drool pooled in the corner, dripped down, and darkened the fabric of the couch. One arm was tucked behind his back, elbow pointed high in the air; the other was flung off the edge, fingers grazing the floor. His legs were twisted and knees pulled up to his chest. Small shivers shook his shoulders. 

Aziraphale felt his lips curl into a smile despite himself. He found it hard to not give into the temptation to do so when it came to Crowley. His smile turned to a frown, though, when Crowley’s body convulsed with a strong shudder.

He tugged on the tips of his gloves and pulled them from his hands. Folding them neatly, he set them on his desk by his full mug of what once had been cocoa. The feet of the chair scraped along the floor. Aziraphale paused and held his breath, eyeing Crowley. 

He stayed fast asleep.

Letting out a sigh of relief, Aziraphale stood and puddered across the room. He gathered the deep maroon, knit blanket thrown across the back of the couch. Unfolding it, Aziraphale draped it over Crowley’s sleeping form. He smoothed the wrinkles and tucked Crowley’s feet underneath it. Aziraphale straightened and gathered Crowley’s arms, massaging out any soreness and cricks before crossing them over his chest. He tugged the blanket over them and up under his chin. The back of his knuckles brushed against Crowley’s jaw; he had allowed a rough growth of stubble to dust his skin.

Warmth slithered and curled in the bottom of his chest. The heavy weight sat comfortable and familiar. At one time, Aziraphale had worried over the sign of attachment and had feared the steady stream of love that filled his being when around Crowley. He swept the hair from his face and pressed a kiss to Crowley’s forehead. “May you have the best dreams of what you love, my dear,” he prayed against Crowley’s skin. Aziraphale’s lips caressed the skin below them with each word.

He stood and straightened his waistcoat, turning to turn off the record player.


End file.
